A Rift In The Heavens
by savemichellemerritt
Summary: John's ongoing discovering into this personal self, through his daily life and the added adventure that it has been filled with. All thanks to Sherlock Holmes


Note: I am not the author, please visit the full page for more explaining of this. The person who wrote this deserves all the credit. I am just the messenger.

#SaveMichelleMerritt

A Rift in the Heavens

It was a shame, he had said, that the skies of London were so often blotted out by clouds. A shame that they didn't see more of the sun.

Of course it was an absentminded remark. Obviously, many parts of their work would be easier with clear weather, it was a simple thing to say. Knowing Sherlock, it couldn't have been sentimental in the least. Still, John couldn't help but disagree.

He didn't mind the clouds or the puddles. He liked the crisp smell of air after a storm. Sometimes, after Afghanistan, the cool dampness of London was a blessing.

John never complained about it.

He loved the rain.

A sleepy half-smile made its way across his face, realizing the utter absurdity of his thought process. Completely ridiculous, especially in light of the fact that it was, what, three in the morning? He rolled over, checking his alarm clock.

2:58 AM.

Close enough.

Tired as he was, it wasn't looking as if he was going to get all that much sleep by lying here and willing himself to nod off, so he might as well do something useful. Besides, a glass of water sounded good right about now.

That seemed to be a good course of action, so John forced himself out of bed – Christ, the floor was cold – and up onto his feet. He stretched, yawning, and stumbled out into the hallway.

No light peeped out from under Sherlock's door, thank God. John wasn't exactly in the mood to confront him right now, during one of his between-case restless inclinations. Besides, he was getting some sleep. Sherlock didn't rest often enough, in John's opinion.

He laughed, whispering to himself. "John Hamish Watson, I do believe you care about that man."

Satisfied, he made his way down the stairs.

John flicked the kitchen light on, blinking to adjust to the brightness. Fetching the water pitcher from the fridge, he set it on the counter. Cups were trickier. Being the height that he was, he had to stretch awkwardly on his toes to reach the cupboard. Just one more challenge that comes with being short, John thought bitterly. He didn't know why that bothered him so much now. After all, he'd used this kitchen plenty of times in the past without a problem. It shouldn't be irritating. There was no reason. It just was.

"Allow me."

John's breath caught in his throat. He hadn't even heard anyone come into the kitchen, much less come up behind him, but the deep voice that murmured into his ear was unmistakably Sherlock. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be asleep-

A jealous twinge hit him, watching just how easily Sherlock reached around him and lifted a glass from the cupboard, handing it to him.

"I believe this is what you were looking for?"

Right. Maybe not jealousy. "Uh, yeah. Spot on. Thanks." He cleared his throat, busying himself with pouring the water and setting the pitcher back on its shelf. Finally, he turned back to face his flatmate. "I thought you were asleep. What's keeping you up?"

"Thinking." As if to emphasize that fact, Sherlock leaned back against the counter, folding his hands neatly beneath his chin.

Small talk, John. Make small talk. Grasping at the start of a conversation, John scanned the room for anything that appeared suspiciously experiment-like. He settled on an arrangement of petri dishes on the kitchen table that were sporting various colors of what John suspected to be mold. "Care to share about your... investigation?"

Sherlock eyed him skeptically, almost cautious in his movements. "Why does it matter?"

John sipped his water. "I'm only curious."

Relenting, he began to explain it. "The growth you see in A1," he gestured to a dish, "Is collecting on a sample of material taken from-"

While the project might have interested John at an later, saner time, it was three AM now, and he felt his focus unintentionally drift from the spoken words to the speaker. Eyes. Sherlock's eyes. Blue, green, grey, and back again, with a little golden glint you wouldn't catch unless you studied them closely. Was there even a name for that color? John wouldn't put it past Sherlock to have an shade of eyes all his own. In a strange way, they were sort of... beautiful.

"If the results prove that the sample taken from the bedroom floor decays at a slower pace than the sample from the public toilet or even that of the other crime scene, it will be non-disputable that the actual death took place off-site since the cause was obviously-"

And his facial structure. For Christ's sake, the man had ungodly cheekbones! How was that even sodding possible? Combined with lips like his – too full for a man, let's be honest – it shouldn't work. He should resemble a creature from Mars. But... he didn't. Sherlock looked perfect. No... he was perfect. Bloody hell, John, what in God's name are you thinking?

"Now if only Scotland Yard would put some effort toward – John!"

John snapped back to attention, flinching. "Yes?"

"You're not even listening." Sherlock hissed the words, rather than speaking them, straightening up and very nearly stalking into the living room. He stopped abruptly, whirling around to face John. "You're not an insomniac. Why are you awake?"

"My throat feels a little dry, I suppose that woke me up. My ideas are as good as yours." John shrugged, hoping Sherlock would be satisfied with that. He didn't quite know why, but he wasn't keen to tell Sherlock all about his nightmares from the war. Maybe he didn't want them dissected by another person, or maybe he would rather deal with it on his own. Either way, John preferred to keep it to himself.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but seemed to be satisfied. If he had identified the truth, at least he had the decency not to elaborate upon it. He made his way over to the sitting area, pacing restlessly. John followed, taking a seat in the armchair.

Fully aware of the awkward silence that had fallen over the two of them, John was quick to start another conversation. "I take it you still haven't received another intriguing lead?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Nothing that's more than a waste of breath to speak of. Stolen cat, indeed!"

John chuckled. He remembered that one. The cat in question, had, in fact, only been napping beneath a sofa. It wasn't necessarily interesting in and of itself, but Sherlock's irritation had been more than comical to see.

However, Sherlock was still less than amused, his eyes narrowing. "Stupid," he muttered to himself. "Utter rubbish."

"I'll take your word for it."

The flat went quiet again. This time it seemed oddly pleasant, even welcome. Sherlock, having had his fill of standing, dropped onto their couch, stretching out along the length of it. Everything felt too nice. John half expected Mrs. Hudson to come bustling in full of chatter and news, just as she did nearly every other time they had a peaceful moment. She didn't, and the two of them sat in what felt like a reasonably companionable silence.

John's gaze was again drawn to Sherlock, since he was, after all – John hoped – the only other living creature in the room. For once, he had an expression of complete contentment on his face, and, catching a glimpse of it, John couldn't help but wish to see that look more often. He didn't often look happy, probably because he worked too hard. But, John supposed, that couldn't really be helped. Sherlock was a force of nature.

Catching his eye, the corner of Sherlock's mouth curled up. John met his gaze coolly.

Hello, he wanted to ask. What goes on in that brilliant mind of yours? What's going through it now?

They were both silent, staring at each other. It wasn't a contest, it wasn't intense. Just looking. John had the vague feeling that Sherlock was examining him, tearing apart every visual clue that was in front of him. Stronger and guiltier was the realization that he didn't mind, he didn't care, and it was all sort of... nice.

Then Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, as if to say, I know what you're thinking, and John felt a prick of shame.

"Excuse me," he said, standing maybe just a little too quickly, "I should be getting to bed."

The hint of a smile that had been on Sherlock's face melted so suddenly that John wondered if he had been imagining it, and as quickly as that, he was expressionless again. Sherlock rolled over, facing the back of the couch.

John took a deep breath, clearing his throat. "Don't you need to rest, too?"

Sherlock said nothing, completely motionless, as if he hadn't even heard John's words.

It became obvious after a few seconds that he wasn't going to reply, so John moved back to the kitchen, set his glass in the sink to wash later, and began to climb the stairs.

"Why?"

Sherlock's voice was unexpected; for the second time that night, John noted wryly. "Why what?" John allowed himself to glance back at his friend – colleague, he corrected himself quickly, Sherlock had no friends – who was still curled up with his back facing John.

Turning, Sherlock sat up and looked John square in the eye. "Why does it matter that I sleep? Why is it important?" He halted, speaking the next words carefully. "Why do you care?"

A million answers flew through John's head, explanations that said it was important to his job, to their job, that John didn't want to deal with a sleep-deprived Sherlock, that it was his duty as a friend, because for Cripe's sake they both knew that that's exactly what he was no matter what Sherlock said, bloody Hell, anything. "I, um..."

John tore his eyes from Sherlock, scrambling for words. He opened his mouth, willed a response to present itself. Nothing came. He looked back to Sherlock.

"I don't know."

John fled, up the stairs, down the hall, and to his room.

Unlike usual, the blankets on John's bed didn't seem warm and inviting. Nevertheless, he wrapped himself up tightly in them, hoping to find some kind of security. It didn't come. John banished his thoughts, forced his mind blank until his head ached from the effort. Sherlock didn't give "ordinary idiots" enough credit, he told himself numbly.

The sound of a violin drifted into John's room, sweet and calming. He smiled in spite of himself. Sherlock. The music flowed over him like a healing balm, as if it were Sherlock's way of saying, "Don't worry. It's fine. It's all fine."

If he actually knew, John wondered, would he still play his violin? Would he still sit up with me at odd hours? Would we still be friends?

After hours – minutes? John couldn't be perfectly sure – of waiting, exhaustion won, and the night closed in.

John felt better in the morning. People generally do, he mused, fighting back a yawn.

He made his bed up neatly, with an air of precision. He wasn't especially domestic, or at least he didn't like to think so, but cleanliness was mandatory in the Army, and the habit had stuck.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had no time or patience to waste on organization. His method of cleaning was to let everything build up until it became positively unlivable, in which case John or Mrs. Hudson would give in and tidy up.

John grimaced, although whether it was from the image of Sherlock's room or something else entirely that had been prodded from hiding after the last night's events was something he didn't care to question.

Pulling a jumper over his head, John washed his face, combed his hair, and slipped on his shoes. His reflection in the mirror returned his tired smile.

John heaved a sigh, straightened his jumper and headed down the stairs.

The click of laptop keys was loud enough that John heard it before he even reached the bottom of the stairs. Rounding the corner, he saw that sure enough, Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, typing furiously and focusing on the screen with an excited sort of intensity.

"Morning, Sherlock."

"John. " Sherlock acknowledged him without moving his eyes off the computer screen.

John crossed the kitchen, not really very surprised at Sherlock's indifferent greeting. Rather than waste any concern over it, John busied himself with dropping bread into the toaster.

"Really, your taste in pornography is disgraceful."

It took John two seconds to register who Sherlock was speaking to, and another two to grasp what he'd said. "What in He-"

"Your browser history. Don't look so appalled, I've hacked your laptop before." Sherlock glanced at John, raising his eyebrows. "What I'd really like to know is why you insist on these vulgar choices. Honestly," He gestured at the laptop screen, "This is atrocious."

John glared venomously, making a point of retrieving his toast before dignifying that with a response. "You have no right to go through my laptop without permission."

"Details." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. After a second or two, he began typing again.

John resumed the preparation of his breakfast, wondering why on earth Sherlock had been compelled to bring that up. The contents of his laptop was his business and his alone. Sitting down at the table, he was about to take a bite when Sherlock jumped up. "A case!"

John dropped his toast. "A what?"

"A case, John!" Sherlock strode across the room, placing his hands on John's shoulders. "Lestrade called a few hours back! He wants us to come down to the station immediately!" Sherlock withdrew himself with a grin, obviously alight with barely suppressed glee. "What are you waiting for? Let's go!" He nearly dashed over to the door, snatching his coat from the hook and tugging it over his shoulders, tying his scarf.

John barely heard him say that he'd go find a cab and have it waiting. Sherlock's footsteps faded, and the door slammed downstairs. John took another deep breath. He picked up the toast he'd dropped on the table, tossed it away. Noting that he'd need to find a new password, he closed his laptop. As if that would really stop Sherlock.

The door slammed again, and a voice shouted from downstairs. " Hurry, John! London is waiting!"

Making his way to the door, John muttered something about how Sherlock should have told him sooner, woken him up at least.

It seemed that it was just his fate, to follow Sherlock Holmes wherever he went, but funny enough, John didn't really mind.

Grabbing his own jacket, he raced to catch the taxi.

"Marjorie Booker, thirty-one years old." Lestrade handed the photographs to Sherlock, encased in a plastic bag. "Called a few days back to report that she'd received a threatening phone call. From what she told us, getting weird calls had been a regular thing for quite a while, but they never mentioned any physical violence until now. This one told her that they knew where she lived and that she would die at seven AM on the twenty-first. That's today."

"Odd," John commented, "For them to state the exact time."

"Anyway, we traced the number to a young man living a few doors down. He confessed to making the threat and planning to shoot her, so we locked him up and assumed she was safe."

Sherlock flipped through the photographs, nodding thoughtfully.

"However, her neighbors heard a gunshot this morning. Seven AM, wouldn't you know. They found her like this." Lestrade gestured to the pictures in Sherlock's hand. "Bullet to the brain. The bloke who confessed is under camera and secure guard day and night." Pausing, he looked uncomfortable. "He didn't do it."

"A punctual murderer." John whistled. "This is complicated, all right."

Sherlock looked up sharply. "Where is the man who made the call?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Questioned him already. He knows nothing. But go ahead, give it a shot. No pun intended." He pulled a key card from his pocket and tossed it to Sherlock. "Here."

John grinned at him. "Lead on, Macduff."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but opened the door to Lestrade's office and held it open for John.

"Thanks," John said, genuinely surprised.

Scoffing, Sherlock let the door slam behind him.

"Yes, we don't have badges. We're not with the police force. We are authorized consultants who have been given express permission to talk with-" John checked the file he was holding, "Perry Lewis. Now let us pass. Please."

It was just their luck that the prison secretary was on vacation, and her substitute was only a few marks shy of entirely clueless. John's patience was waning, and Sherlock, who was pacing behind him, looked ready to explode any minute now.

"I'm sorry sir, but only badge-wearing police officers can enter this area."

Honestly, this was worse than trying to barter with one of those Chip and PIN machines at the supermarket. "Oh, for the love of..." John scanned the room for a familiar face, but all the officers were strangers to him.

"Hi, John."

John spun around, grateful for the first time in their acquaintance to see Sgt. Donovan. "Sally! Thank God you're here!"

The secretary stared. "You know these men?"

Sally rolled her eyes. "Of course. Everyone knows the psychopath and his one-man-fan-club."

John was too thankful for the entire authorization thing being cleared up to care about what she'd said, but Sherlock wasn't. "High-functioning sociopath," he muttered to no one in particular.

Still a little doubtful, the secretary finally waved them on. "Go ahead."

"Thanks, Sally!" John called, hurrying to catch up with Sherlock who'd taken off like a rocket.

Sherlock frowned, taking hold of John's sleeve and nearly dragging him along. "Hurry up," he said.

John tugged his arm away and followed Sherlock down the hallway, if not a little crossly. "I am!"

Holding up the key card, Sherlock caught John's eye. "Ready?"

"Yes."

A definitive click sounded as Sherlock slid the card through the reader on the doorknob. He tried to turn the handle, but it stuck. He cursed.

"Here, let me." John took hold of it pushed, hard. It didn't move. "What's up with this? Did the key not work?" He took the card from Sherlock's hand and swiped it once more. Again, it clicked, but the handle wouldn't budge.

"It's been tampered with from the inside." Sherlock eyed it calculatingly. "Do you think you can get it open with brute strength?"

"I can try." Rolling up his sleeves, John gripped the handle and pushed on it with all his strength. The latch gave a mighty groan, some nasty sound of metal grinding against metal, and then a loud snap. The door swung open.

What John thought he might see and what he saw were two very different things.

"Oh my God." He turned to Sherlock, nervously.

Somehow Sherlock didn't seem surprised.

Perry Lewis lay on the floor, and from the amount of blood pooling around his head, he certainly didn't look alive.

John said it again. "Oh my God." Then, "Should we call Lestrade?"

Sherlock shrugged. "That can wait."

"What do you mean that can wait? One of the prison inmates is fucking dead and you think we should wait to tell the police?"

"Oh, all right," Sherlock said exasperatedly. "Text him if you must." He rolled up his sleeves. "Meanwhile, let's get started, shall we?"

It was John's turn to roll his eyes, but he sent a text to Lestrade.

Come to the cell ASAP. JW

He wrinkled his nose slightly at the mess, but stepped in along with Sherlock.

"It wasn't suicide."

Standing off to the side in Sherlock's lab, Lestrade nodded thoughtfully. "You think the real murderer killed him, too? Did he know him?"

"Of course. He couldn't have shot at that angle with the gun in his left hand, and besides, there are traces of other fingerprints on the gun. It's a bit like that other case with the bank, if you remember, John." Sherlock paused, rotating the microscope lens. "The murderer probably did wear gloves, but they must have slipped at some point, because his fingertips made contact with the gun handle. Obviously he left in a hurry, or he wouldn't have dropped the gun." Changing slides, Sherlock continued on."Examining his saliva should tell us whether-" He stopped dead.

"What is it?" John cut in, worried.

"Clever, clever," Sherlock murmured. "Very clever." He turned to the other two. "It appeared to be a murder disguised as a suicide, but that was a fluke. They must know who they're dealing with." He gestured to the microscope. "Take a look, John."

He did, and sucked in his breath. "Jesus."

Lestrade pressed on, obviously in a hurry. "So what is it, exactly?"

"A suicide that was made to look like a murder disguised as a suicide."

"A what?"

John smiled weakly. "The culprit must be a whole lot smarter than we thought."

"Bloody fuck..."

While the other two looked grim, Sherlock was nearly floating in excitement. This was his forte, John realized. He had known it before, but with each new case Sherlock's enthusiasm for the dangerous and complex never ceased to surprise him. Sometimes, John knew, he wished that he would be able to light that sort of intensity in him. But it was an impossibility.

Sherlock caught him staring and smirked, and John had to look away.

"You're saying that his saliva contains traces of hydrogen cyanide?" Lestrade frowned slightly, pausing in the action of writing something, notes on evidence and clues, most likely, on a notepad. The three of them had relocated back to his office at Scotland Yard.

"Correct. While I suppose it's possible that he could have had it hidden on his person the entire time, what with your terrible security, it's much more probable that some kind of comrade smuggled it to him at his request. He must have had outside communications during his imprisonment."

"You think there's a secret entrance to the cell?" John asked, tentatively. It didn't seem likely to him.

Lestrade cut in as well. "My security is not terrible."

"But it is! Don't you see? There couldn't be a hidden entrance. At least the cell itself is sturdy, thank God. Besides, if he had found an exit why don't you think he would have used it? No, it would have to be an outside contact working with him, who was willing to fulfill his wishes but wanted him to remain in place. Therefore he either sneaked by your guard, masqueraded as a part of it, or, of course," Sherlock gave Lestrade a look, "is part of it."

Scowling slightly, Lestrade swore. "None of the force are double agents, I can assure you of that."

John ventured to speak again. "Do you think that the person who brought him the drug was also the one that shot him?"

"I'd imagine it's possible."

"What about Ms. Booker? Was that the same person as well?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'm inclined to suppose so."

John shook his head. "What I don't understand is why they arranged this mess."

"Obviously, they knew that someone intelligent would be solving this." Sherlock looked smug. "They made it clear that it was supposed to look like a suicide but couldn't have been. A stupid person might have left it there."

Letting out his breath in a low whistle, John scratched his head. "Jesus."

"You already said that."

"I know, and I'll say it again. Bloody, mangled, Jesus-motherfucking-Christ."

Lestrade tried very hard to look stern, but a grin spread slowly across Sherlock's features and soon all three of them were laughing.

"Language, John," Lestrade managed, but he was still wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

With such a serious situation at hand, though, it wasn't long before they all sobered up. John took the case file from Lestrade and shook his hand. "We'll be on it as soon as possible."

"You mean I will." Sherlock said. "That's always what really happens."

"Yes. Of course. That goes without saying." John stammered, caught off guard.

Lestrade gave them a strange look and showed them to the door.

A few minutes later, after leaving Scotland Yard and catching another cab, John sank into his seat. Across from him, Sherlock stared into space.

John cleared his throat. "It looks like it's going to rain." he remarked, looking out the window at some rather menacing clouds gathering along the horizon.

Sherlock fixed him with a glare. "Of course it will."

Neither of them said anything for the rest of the ride.

The sky was dark when they reached the flat. A few of the first raindrops had begun to hit the pavement, hastening the two of them inside.

John shrugged his jacket off and hung it up on the hook. Sherlock's coat slipped to the floor. He didn't notice, heading straight to the kitchen.

John considered it for a few seconds before picking it up and hanging it properly. After all, he told himself, it was a nice coat.

Settling on the couch, John began flipping through television channels. Seeing that reruns of Fawlty Towers were playing, he smiled, remembering watching them with his sister when he was about five or six. It had been his mum's favorite comedy show. Although he hadn't understood the humor at the time, he had liked the colorful sets and loved watching his family laugh.

From the kitchen, Sherlock gave John's choice of telly a huff and a disdainful glance.

Always quick to leap to the defensive, John spoke up. "What? It's cheap entertainment!"

Pursing his lips, Sherlock shook his head. " I think only the first of those descriptions fits." He stalked off to his room, leaving John to watch his show.

Still, it was late, and John found that he couldn't really concentrate on the storyline. He switched it off after only a few minutes of trying to watch, pushing himself to his feet and heading to the kitchen to put on the tea kettle.

It occurred to him soon that Sherlock might like some as well. Sighing, John glanced at the stairs. He might as well go ask him.

Sherlock's door was closed, so John knocked twice before opening it, figuring he wouldn't be bothered to get up and let him in.

Inside, Sherlock nodded at him. He was sprawled out on his bed, looking over the case file and appeared very much engrossed.

John waited a second before speaking up. "I was wondering if you wanted tea?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Actually..." John glanced at his watch, "Should we order dinner?"

"I'm not hungry."

Surprised to find that even though he hadn't eaten a thing all day, he wasn't either, John didn't push it. "Suit yourself."

He meant to leave after that, he really did. Sherlock was busy. Still, John was almost rooted to the spot. He wanted to stay. He wanted to talk. He wanted to, just once, act like normal flatmates. Like normal friends.

Sherlock looked up. "Do you need something?"

"Do I have to have a reason to want to have a conversation with my flatmate?"

"John. I'm busy. If you're having a difficulty with your endlessly complicated life, go give your dad a ring or something."

"My dad's dead."

Sherlock shrugged. "You have my regrets."

"No."

"No?" Sherlock tilted his head, confused,

"Don't just say it like that. You don't mean it. I don't even care if you don't give a damn about it, just don't pretend to be sympathetic when you're not."

"What you you expect from me, then? I'm working!" he spat. "I'm not going to sit and have a nice little cry with you just because daddy died! Yes, you're right, I don't give a fuck whether your father is dead or if he's traipsing over the hills of Hertfordshire! For once I was making an effort to be polite! Now would you kindly leave me be?"

John's face hardened. His fists clenched tightly at his sides. He took a step back, nearly tripping over a stray shoe.

Downstairs, the kettle began to shriek.

"Of course. Good night, Sherlock." John left the room and closed the door quietly.

John no longer had the stomach for tea. Instead, he poured the entire kettle down the kitchen sink, watching it go down the drain with a steamy hiss.

He thought about washing the dishes, but he didn't trust himself at the moment not to drop or crack a glass. They could wait till the next day. Since there wasn't really anything else to do, John turned out the light and slowly climbed the staircase to his room.

He felt like he should be angry. He was, of course. He was extremely angry. But much more overwhelming were the sensations of hurt and guilt. What had he really expected? John pondered this as he slipped between his sheets. Sherlock was always like this when he was on a case, and John had a sinking feeling that he should have known, that the outburst was more than partially his fault. He shouldn't have nudged him over the edge. John, a retired Army recruit, was letting another man push him around. Was he really this weak?

John hadn't even realized that he was crying until he felt the wet spot on his pillow. He felt stupid, mortified, alone.

Still, it had been a long day and John was tired, too tired to fight it. Finally, he took a deep breath and just let the tears come.

It was pouring when he fell asleep, and somehow, the sound of raindrops hitting the window panes made him feel just a little bit better.

Maybe, if the sky could cry, sometimes he could too.


End file.
